


In Her Majesty's Service

by EmeraldEyes8917



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Scene, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Scandal in Belgravia, Sherlock Wearing A Sheet, Some light tussling, Stubborn detective is stubborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27722830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldEyes8917/pseuds/EmeraldEyes8917
Summary: Following Sherlock Holmes' daring display at Buckingham Palace and his brother Mycroft's annoyed command to put his clothes back on while John Watson and the equerry Harry look on, there is only one woman who can make sure he does just that.However, there is a chance for one last escape from the palace and the mysterious client presented to him.An additional scene to 'A Scandal in Belgravia' between the scene of 'no sheet' Sherlock and presenting the case of the scandalous photographs with a twist including Sherlock and Anthea's relationship.Very much inspired by my BBC Sherlock Twitter RP group and universe.
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Anthea/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	In Her Majesty's Service

"... Now for God's sake! Put your clothes on!"  
  
Sherlock's deep inhale is equal parts annoyed and defiant, but he wordlessly acquiesces with a slow nod. Still, he refuses to move, clutching the bedsheet around his hips, poised as a marble statue.  
  
John remains where he is, arms folded behind his back, not wanting to break the delicate balance of a rare instance of co-operation between the two Holmes brothers. As intriguing as this anonymous client was, the last thing anyone wanted was for Sherlock Holmes to stroll through Buckingham Palace with nothing on but a smug smile.  
  
Mycroft's indignance is still simmering, but his smile is polite to Harry, the royal equerry, who had been observing this scene with measured bemusement.  
  
Taking out his phone, Mycroft decisively types and sends a text message. 

A few moments later, the distinct alert of a BlackBerry Curve rings out in the long, deserted corridors, followed by the steady pace of high-heeled footsteps on the carpeted floor.  
  
Sherlock's brow furrows, but he still doesn't stir, though his throat constricts as he swallows thickly. He watches the door where he had intended to exit with an intent look.  
  
It's only when she appears at the door does he feel truly vulnerable now, and he would never admit it readily. The desire to show up his brother in a spectacular fashion to prove a point had faded, and he was presently faced with his brother's faithful assistant, looking down demurely at her BlackBerry, steadily typing for a moment, before slowly raising her head to regard him quietly.  
  
Anthea.  
  
She smiles, acting completely nonchalant, though her cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink.

"Hello."  
  
"Good morning."  
  
Her eyes subtly flick down for a moment and back up, "Formal attire for the palace, I see."

He swiftly parries back, "Nothing but the best for her Majesty."  
  
Her smile widens, dipping her head back over her phone screen, and nods to John, "Good morning, Doctor Watson."  
  
John looks surprised that she remembered him following the taxi-driver shooting crime scene when she had drawn a blank, but he nods in return, "Hello, Anthea."  
  
Mycroft interjects politely, "Now that the pleasantries are out of the way... Anthea, if you please.."  
  
Sherlock's long sigh is dramatic, chagrined that they are taking her attention away from him.

She nods, saying 'Yes, sir' quietly, stepping past Sherlock and lifting the bundle of clothes, an amused smirk tugging the corner of her mouth, as she tips her head back towards the door, "Right this way."  
  
He looks back pointedly at Mycroft, who lifts his foot with a slow smile, freeing the trapped end of the makeshift toga, and Sherlock arranges the sheet into a more flattering shape similar to when he first strolled out of 221B earlier that morning, letting out a proud huff for good measure.

Anthea wisely keeps her eyes averted, looking down at the black pile of clothing as if were a stack of top-secret MoD reports, storing away the sight of him wrapped in a sheet for a much later time.  
  
Soon, she is striding out the door, not even looking back at Sherlock to see if he was behind her, knowing full well that he would follow whether he wanted to or not. She had his clothes and, in a more subtle way, his dignity in her hands.  
  
"I don't require an escort, you know."

The bedsheet trails on the carpeted floor like a cape as he takes in the surroundings, throwing second glances at the tall windows and opulent decor.  
  
She graces him with a pleasantly patient look over her shoulder, not breaking her stride, "Yes, I know."   
  
A few turns around corners at a brisk pace brought them to the toilets, "This is just a precaution, in case you make a run for the gates."  
  
"Would I do such a thing?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
A deep chuckle, "You know me too well."  
  
She turns, looking over her shoulder coyly, then hands him his clothes with a bright smile, every bit the enthusiastic PA from her early days in Mycroft Holmes's employ, "In you go. I'll wait out here."  
  
His smirk is slow, "Not going to follow me into No Woman's Land?"  
  
The irony is not lost on her, but she keeps her pleasant demeanour, "There's a limit to how far I will follow. Besides, I believe in maintaining one's privacy."

She tips her chin up in a subtle challenge.  
  
"You're a government pencil-pusher who watches people for a living, I'm surprised you still do."

He raises an amused eyebrow, deliberately teasing her. He always referred to her as a pencil-pusher with fondness, and it was incredibly disarming at the best of times.  
  
Her chuckle is dry, undeterred, "Off you pop."  
  
"Yes, ma'am."

He turns and pushes in the door with his shoulder. The sheet slips down again and drapes dangerously low, exposing the line of his shoulders and the dip of his spine, and she nearly covers her eyes in a reflex action but manages to nudge the end in after him before it becomes trapped in the door. She hears him mutter a word of thanks, and the door swings closed after him.  
  
Once he was inside, she leans against the wall and allows herself to exhale slowly. First and foremost, she was a government official, with all that the position implied. But there was no denying the saliant fact that she was a red-blooded woman and the sight of a shirtless man was bound to make her lose her composure for the briefest of moments.

Especially when that man was Sherlock. They had only become recently intimate, sharing a bed and countless kisses that went on for many minutes rather than brief goodnight kisses when either had to depart. 

After longing for him for such a long time, being patient until he was ready and knowing that he wanted her in his own unique way, it was like tasting something addictive. 

Putting a hand to her warm cheek, she regains her composure and types on her phone, switching between official alerts, Solitaire and Angry Birds in order to pass the time.  
  
Several minutes pass, and she knocks on the door, politely, "Sherlock, are you ready?"  
  
No answer.  
  
She knocks again, more insistent this time, "Sherlock, they'll be waiting for you."  
  
Still no answer.  
  
When she tries to open the door, she finds, to her dismay, that it won't budge.

"Sherlock, for goodness sake..."

After slipping her BlackBerry into her skirt pocket, she gives the door a hard shove with her shoulder, her voice getting louder, "Sherlock! Open this door!"

Another forceful push, her shoulder beginning to ache, and it successfully dislodges the chair tilted up against the handle. The sudden change in her equilibrium pitches her forward sharply, and she stumbles inside, not caring that it was the men's room and she most certainly was not a man.  
  
She was far too annoyed to regard that inconsistency. And the sight of the fully dressed Sherlock balancing on the sink and trying to climb out the window annoys her to the point of anger.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes!"  
  
He turns, looking all at once impressed and shocked that she got in here, "Anthea, just let me get out of here, will you?"  
  
"No. You are coming back and you are listening to Harry's case. Now come down from there before you injure yourself."

She steps towards him slowly, visibly vexed but attempting to project calm.  
  
He huffs impatiently, "You're such a do-gooder."

He reaches up for the latch on the window, which happens to be quite stiff and he gives it a forceful push with the heel of his hand.  
  
His current position would have been comical had he not been trying to escape, one leg bent towards the window-sill, teetering on the lip on the sink, and a brief thought flashes of what would happen if he fell.  
  
'Good enough for him,' her conscience interjects.  
  
She puts her hands on her hips, "And you're such a show-off. Let's accept both of these statements to be true, and come down this instant."  
  
Another defiant sigh before he clambers down, albeit gracefully, and stands in front of her after pulling down on his suit jacket, looking like a petulant child, "Why should I listen to some royal aide when I have better things to be doing?"  
  
Praying to heaven to give her strength, she says in a placating tone, "It's of national importance and it would be good of you to start paying attention to it since you tell anyone who will listen how bored you are. It is a serious case that threatens the monarchy, therefore, it requires your expertise."

Playing to his ego always helped, as she learned from experience, "Now, come along, please. They're bound to come looking."  
  
"No."  
  
Her eyes flash, "Did you hear what I just said?"

She says her next words forcefully through gritted teeth, channelling Mr Holmes from earlier, "Come. Along. /Please/."  
  
"And you heard what I said..."

He draws the word out, "/No/."  
  
She actually growls impatiently, "I don't want to have to force you. But I will have to since you insist on being so difficult."

She takes his arm, much like if they were walking through the city, and gives him a firm pull towards the door.  
  
He resists, literally digging in his heels and yanking his arm back.

Undeterred and beginning to lose patience, she pulls again with both hands, her heels starting to slide on the tiles, "For goodness sake! Will you just come on?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Sherlock, you're coming back!"  
  
"I am not!"  
  
She tugs harder, even grabbing the lapels of his black jacket to aid her, "Would you... just... stop being so... so stubborn!"  
  
He grabs hold of her wrists, prising them away from his arm, and she struggles to break free, "Settle down, Anthea."  
  
"No! Let... go! How dare you! Let me go, right now!"  
  
He was finding it harder to hold onto her, the various trinkets on her charm bracelet digging into his right palm, and she was moving around so much, her hair obscuring his vision. In a moment of confusion, she manages to land a solid blow to his shoulder.  
  
A huffed grunt more of a surprise than of pain. He had nearly forgotten about her self-defence training.

Drawing her close, he attempts to trap her arms by her side, but she continues to twist and turn in his grip, the vanilla notes of her perfume tickling his nose. A momentary distraction as he feels her lift her knee up. Ambitious, seeing as he was so much taller than her, even in her high-heels.  
  
He turns, using her lack of balance to aid him as she teetered on one high-heel, pushing her firmly against the wall by the hand-dryer, a bit harder than he intended, close to knocking the wind out of her, ignoring her furied cries.

He hisses as she taps the toe of her shoe against one shin, not enough to hurt, but still enough to make his leg buckle. Decisively, he traps her feet in between his, pinning her hands on either side of her head.  
  
"Stop... stop this..." His voice is harsh, yet holds a tone of pleading.   
  
She goes still, her hair whipped about her face, eyes bright with unshed tears. She sniffs, her lower lip quivering, scared of disappointing his brother and the fact that they were fighting like this, most likely.   
  
Silly, emotional, sentimental woman.  
  
His heart gives an involuntary pull, his hold on her wrists loosening, and her hands unclenching in turn, a truce arising through a silent agreement.   
  
They were both breathing fast, cheeks flushed from the struggle, and now bare inches separated them.  
  
They regard each other silently. Carefully, she moves her feet so she wasn't trapped anymore, and he releases her wrists, allowing her to lower them to her sides.  
  
He mirrors her, bringing his hands down in turn, showing that he didn't intend to trick her. A light touch of her index finger against his, tentative but sweet, and his response is automatic.

Not taking his eyes off her, he takes her hand, interweaving their fingers together, bends his head down, nuzzling her cheek with his nose, sighing shakily. She turns her head towards him, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth.   
  
"I'm sorry..." she says quietly.  
  
"Don't be..." he replies just as softly.   
  
"Did I hurt you?"  
  
"No. Did I hurt you?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You're... quite strong." His tone holds a note of admiration.  
  
Her blush is instant, but her smiles fades.  
  
"But still, I..."

He silences her with a light peck to her lips.   
  
"Sshh..." he whispers against her mouth.  
  
She nods slowly, lightly kissing him back, emboldened by him making the first move.

"Will you listen..." Kiss. "To the case?" Kiss.  
  
He hums, tilting his head, still giving her light pecks, stroking her hair lightly.  
  
"I... might..."  
  
She hums, cupping his face and holding him steady as she gently deepens it, both exhaling shakily as their tongues meet. The romantic thoughts that she had pushed down in lieu of professionalism were beginning to ignite and smoulder, a brief, startling imagining that she wanted to take his shirt off again.  
  
"Mm... we can do better than that..."  
  
He is about to ask what her intention was to make him change his mind, but it is interrupted by a gentle bite to his lower lip and the light playing of her fingertips along his shirt buttons. Groaning, he shifts his weight, slipping an arm around her, holding her to him possessively.  
  
"I..." he begins, but gasps as she presses kisses to his neck, scraping her teeth across his carotid, soothing his skin with her warm tongue. 

Feeling quite overpowered and dazed, he murmurs, "I... will... take a look..."

Her soft chuckle sounds close to his ear as she holds him close, the toe of her shoe tracing its way up the back of his calf.  
  
"Anthea..."  
  
Lifting their joined hands, he pins them against the wall by her head, her quiet gasp making him smile against her mouth.  
  
Another soft kiss, another stroke of his hand through her hair, a hand skimming down his back as it slides beneath his jacket. A brief moment where he is holding her and nearly presses her against the wall as they fit snugly together, but time was not on their side, so they part reluctantly.  
  
Tipping her head back against the wall, she blinks blearily as he rests his hands on her waist, fixing her with a look that was both thoughtful and intense. Smiling slowly, she straightens his collar in her habitual gesture, and he touches her cheek with his fingertips.  
  
"Why must you be so persuasive?" he asks with a half-smile.  
  
Her smile is almost feline, lightly touching the exposed skin at his throat and those inches below where the top two buttons are open, "Because you insist on being so stubborn. I employ all of my negotiating skills to the full since you have such a standard to attest to, my clever one."

His eyes flash at her use of that endearment, and his hand cups the back of her head as he presses a brief, but a hard kiss to her lips. 

Her soft exclamation is muffled, and as he pulls back after several seconds, she follows him, wanting another kiss.  
  
"Let's not keep them waiting, hm?"  
  
His smile is smug, and she could have been irked at the expression if not for the brief interlude that had just passed, but she smiles back, liquid warmth pooling in her stomach as he played such a card, grateful that he had, at last, agreed to be co-operative, at least for the moment.  
  
She straightens her hair and fixes her blouse, "Alright then, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Shall we?" 

He looks in the mirror, straightens himself as well, rubbing his lower lip and fluffs up his hair, before he nods and gestures in a gentlemanly manner as she walks ahead and they leave the toilets, making their way back to the main waiting area where the other men had waited patiently.

On the way, she briefly opines to herself that it was a lucky chance that she did not wear lipstick this morning, knowing that the evidence would be that bit harder to conceal, especially from the older Holmes brother. 

While it was no secret that his younger brother was fond of his aide, she was not about to be caught in the middle when it came to warring loyalties should they ever fall out with each other.

She was professionally bound to one and romantically bound to the other. It was a narrow tightrope she walked, but she was content enough to not make a huge show of her relationship.

By the time they arrive back, she is cool and collected, and he is smiling to himself in a self-assured manner, feeling a small measure of elation at the prospect of a new case and the mini shot of serotonin he had received just now. Kissing was still something mysterious and exciting to him, and it was an unexpected discovery that someone could elicit such a response in him and that he actually found it stimulating.

He had always admired Anthea's work ethic and her intellect, though not on the same level as his or Mycroft's, she was not an idiot compared to most others he interacted with. Although her devotion to his brother was something he could barely fathom, he had learned to not question it, and besides, her devotion to him was something that he quite enjoyed having.

After receiving instructions from Mycroft, she gives a pleasant smile to all present as she takes her leave, giving one last meaningful look to the consulting detective before she departs to return to the office, retrieving the now-infamous bedsheet from its crumpled place on the mens' room floor.  
  
Though she outwardly appeared as poised as when she first entered the room, her glowing cheeks and swollen lips tell a different story that the casual observer would be unable to decipher. It was a story that only Sherlock Holmes could deduce.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and for all the comments and kudos left on my previous Sherlock works.
> 
> This one was a lot of fun to imagine, since there was a jump from Sherlock looking quite miffed to the seating at the table with Mycroft pouring tea. I'd love to imagine that somewhere out there, Anthea was waiting in the wings with her phone and a demure smile much like she was in The Empty Hearse. (Basically, anywhere Mycroft goes in the show, I imagine Anthea is in the car or nearby, such is my RP brain and my imagination having to be quite creative. lol)
> 
> It's very encouraging when writing for a rare-pair that doesn't get a lot of creativity devoted to it. This relationship is very dear to me, as I RPd Anthea on Twitter and the Sherlock I wrote with was the most lovely, brilliant scene partner. The entire group I collaborated with proved to be the funniest, most genuine and talented people I've ever come across.
> 
> I would honestly compare our group to the cast of Critical Role and LA By Night, two shows that I adore watching for the LARPing and the tabletop gaming experiences.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all again and I hope to find and edit a few more Twitlongers to post here soon. :)


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